Damn
by Chibikat the Canuck
Summary: A look into one's swirling and borderline-insane thoughts. Extremely odd.


  
  
  
  


**_Disclaimer:_****** Did you know that. . .? Chibikat doesn't own Marvel or the X-Men, because if she did, not only would half the team wear Sailor Senshi uniforms, but they would all sing Broadway show tunes and hula hoop around the Mansion for hours on end. Now you know!

  
  


**_Rating:_**__ Um. . . PG-13. . . this is kinda weird. . .

  
  


**_Author's Notes:_**__ Okay, this is seriously freaky. I have NO idea where the hell this came from, but my muse was buggin' me to write it, so, yeah. I'm really sorry if it sucks. 

  
  


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**_Animal Instinct_******

  
  


I feel it. 

  
  


It's something - definitely something.

  
  


I wait for a moment. My curiosity demands of me the answer to the something plaguing my soul at the moment. The something eats away slowly, like a virus or a disease, making its way through my entire body. The something is torturous - I writhe in inner pain as it hollows out my being.

  
  


Wait. . .

  
  


. . . it's gone now.

  
  


Silence. Not to be for long, though.

  
  


There it is again.

  
  


Damn this conscious mind of mine. Damn this curiosity.

  
  


Damn this heart.

  
  


No, no. . . damn him. That's right, damn _him._ _He _is to blame, yes, that insufferable _he _who has manifested himself in the form of corrupting love in my cursed heart.

  
  


I notice I have spilled my tea. No matter, no, no matter at all.

  
  


Nothing matters, does it? Of course not. I have answered that question countless times, in countless places, in countless frames of mind.

  
  


The answer, of course, is never the same.

  
  


For now, the answer shall be and remain no. For now, of course. I shall most likely change my mind soon. I have a habit of doing that - yes, change my point of view, that is what I'll do.

  
  


Even though it doesn't matter, the damn tea is scolding my legs as I think this very thought.

  
  


Damn tea. Interrupt me with its persistent cries of pain, will it? 

  
  


Ha, I think, as I walk to the counter to get a tea towel. A towel made for and named after tea, for the sole purpose of wiping it up. Absurd, is it not? Absurd as it may be, it is quite useful in my current predicament. Placing the cloth on my singed (although only slightly singed) legs, the said towel does its duty as intended by soaking up the offending hot liquid.

  
  


I toss the tea towel aside without care.

  
  


I muse my actions as I continue on my way to the desired destination of the breakfast table. I seek an object vehemently, its importance and significance quite large in my little mind. As soon as the task is complete, said object loses any and all value and is pitched aside without second thought.

  
  


The wonderfully horrid irony of it all.

  
  


I sigh as I sit at the table, contemplating my actions that were all-to-human in their cruelty. When. . .

  
  


. . . there it is again.

  
  


The pain.

  
  


Damn torment.

  
  


I hear a sound. My head seems to turn all on its own to find the direction of the sound.

  
  


It comes from the stairs. . .

  
  


. . . it's _him._

  
  


My troubles-incarnate makes its way down the stairs and to the fridge to pull out its prized possession - a fermented solution known joyously throughout the world as beer. 

  
  


To beer, I think, the cause of and solution to all of life's problems.

  
  


These thoughts I create are my way of distracting myself from the cause of my pain and torment, the one oh-so-gallantly guzzling his cherished drug. Although his above average abilities shall well cover for the liquor's damage, he is without a shadow of a doubt still addicted to the stuff.

  
  


I raise a subconscious toast to clever brewers and marketers everywhere. Here here.

  
  


He greets me in a suitable 'hello' and I respond in turn, although my acknowledging is in a noticeably more feminine tone than his, seeing that I belong to his opposite gender. He thinks nothing of my pondering (how could he? It is not as if he can read minds, to my knowledge that is) and sits in a chair that resembles mine yet positioned on a completely different side of the table.

  
  


We sit. He distracts himself by making himself acquainted with a cigar (where did he get it from? No matter, no matter at all. . .) and creates his own thoughts to contemplate.

What does he think?

  
  


I could always use my "amazing" gift and/or curse to find out, but where would the fun be in that? To always know what another is thinking. . . a nightmare all on its own. Some things should be left unknown for the sake of all.

  
  


One other bounds down the stairs towards the fated kitchen.

  
  


Sweet surprises, will they ever end? It is the other which helps create my torment. Now, some prefer to call this aching torment love, however I prefer to leave name calling out of anything. It is so childish, is it not? Yes, yes it is, I assure myself. It is.

  
  


He sits beside me. I see my bedraggled image reflecting in the glasses he wears to protect us from his own unique curse and/or gift, whichever you choose to call it. As I said, let us leave name calling out of such issues.

  
  


He smiles.

  
  


Damn him.

  
  


As soon as he sat, he is up to get himself some orange juice. I watch silently. I look between the two men who share my fortress of solitude with me.

  
  


A paradox. Yes, that is what it is, a paradox. So different, yet. . . similar in a way.

  
  


Quite similar, if one thinks about such a thing.

  
  


I seem to be a common interest in both, and they in turn a common interest in I. Ah, yet more bittersweet irony. . .

  
  


The one who journeyed to the counter has returned with his long sought-out glass of orange juice. He sips it gratifyingly. The other chomps his cigar in much the same manner. A paradox, yes, yes, a paradox all on its own. . .

  
  


I notice there is still some left over tea in the cup which I had previously spilled. It is by now luke warm. To drink or not to drink. . .? What an unimportant question.

  
  


I wave such ludicrous and unneeded thought away with the proverbial brush of my hand. I am simply content to sit and fall deeper into my cogitating. However, my mind cannot remove itself from the call of hunger whose beckons become stronger every passing second.

  
  


Damn body. 

  
  


My red hair falls in front of my face as I lift my head and the rest of my horribly leaden body to the fridge to fulfill my needs.

  
  


As I slowly make my way to my required destination, one of the men at the table calls my name for something. Which one?

  
  


It doesn't matter.

  
  


I always did think name calling was childish.

  
  


Damn names.

  
  


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Okay, that was seriously whacked. I'm sorry, but I've been in a slightly WEIRD mood tonight, and my writing is no exception. Um. . . reviews welcome, I guess. . . @_@

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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